


Parisian Noses and Provencal Stomachs

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Series: The 1830s AU [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Family, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: A fic that came to mind when reading cookbooks. Set in the WAMP verse, some months before the epilogue.





	Parisian Noses and Provencal Stomachs

_Fall 1833_

Like so many of Eponine’s misadventures, her foray into the fish market had begun with a careless remark. ‘ _You need to make more of an effort, Eponine. Your husband might find himself driven home to Aix by his stomach!’_ that ever-present harridan Leonor Torres had said during what was meant to be a light-hearted chat among friends after a short meeting over some political tracts. Eponine might have left it at that, if only some of the other women present had succeeded in stifling their giggles. “Then again, it is not as if I see her cooking bouillabaisse all the time for Feuilly either!” she muttered as she and Musichetta looked up and down the street for the next omnibus bound for St. Denis.

Musichetta, who up to now had been humming a tune from a recent play, merely rolled her eyes sagely. “You don’t have to let Leonor get under your skin all the time. Besides, it’s not as if Enjolras is particular about his food. He hardly eats as it is!”

“If it was possible to simply live on air, he would, just to save time,” Eponine said dryly. She snorted just remembering how she had to insist on giving Enjolras more fruits and ham to go with his bread while they’d been packing their lunches earlier that day.  ‘ _But then again he still looks for citrons and other nice things, even though he’s been here in Paris for years,’_ she thought, recalling now how her husband had been happy to receive a box of some fine preserves and foodstuffs from his parents’ home in Aix. Perhaps it was not entirely possible to wean a man away from the Midi after all.

The clatter of the omnibus’ arrival cut through Eponine’s reverie and she looked to meet Musichetta’s knowing look. “I s’pose you think I’m a little silly,” Eponine said.  

“Not really. You should have seen me when I tried to give Joly and Bossuet a taste of home,” Musichetta replied as they boarded the omnibus. “Of course, I should have known better; the cooking at Meaux is nothing like it is in the Midi after all.”

 It was all that Eponine could do to hold back her laughter as the image came to mind of her friends arguing about the best way to cook fowl, a meat that had turned out to be a particular point of contention in their motely coterie. Yes, in some respects she was lucky as far as her household was concerned; her brothers did not mind eating anything as long as they were full, while the man of the house was not particularly fastidious. ‘ _But I do need to show that I can manage too in the kitchen and not just with books and ink all the time,’_ she decided.

The fish market, located a short distance from the Rue St. Denis, had taken a few good turns in the previous months. Thanks to the vendors’ own efforts, what had once been a haphazard assortment of stalls in various states of repair had transformed into an orderly lane of open-air shops, with small awnings to protect the sellers from the elements. However, what could never be banished was the smell of brine mingled with that of fish guts. Eponine felt her gut lurch as soon as this odor assailed her nostrils. “I s’pose it’s one thing if the fish is very fresh and straight from the water. But not like this!” she muttered as she watched Musichetta peruse a basket of mussels.

“Eponine, you just had one bad batch of bouillabaisse weeks ago. Not _all_ fish is that terrible,” the older woman pointed out. “If you ask me, it doesn’t smell much different from the meat market.”

“I just never could get used to it,” Eponine admitted. “We didn’t have very much fish in Montfermeil when Zelma, Cosette, and I were little girls there. Maman knew where to get good chickens, and my father always insisted on having a good slab of ham in the inn. At least when we could still afford it.” Even now she could almost see her mother’s kitchen again, awash with the smells of cured meat and ringing with her mother’s bellowing as she bustled about with her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. ‘ _If we kept that inn, she would have taught me some of that too,’_ she thought.

Musichetta frowned as she set aside a bad shellfish. “Well there are other dishes that aren’t bouillabaisse. And they don’t take much time to prepare, especially since it’s so late in the day.”

“I s’pose I could try a simpler soup,” Eponine conceded. “Monique, my mother-in-law, mentioned a _soupe aigo-saou_.”

“A what?”

“I gathered it was a kind of fish soup. But I will need herbs for it though.”

Musichetta sighed. “We should have bought those _first_ before heading here! Never mind, I still have some of my own bouquet garni at the Rue Ferou; I’ll teach you how to make your own.”

“Thank you Chetta,” Eponine said. She stood on tiptoe to get a better look at a stall selling an assortment of large fish. ‘ _I hope I get one that is soft enough,’_ she thought as she sallied forth to speak with the seller. “Good afternoon. How much could you give me for two large sides of the fish?” she asked, indicating a specimen that still looked rather fresh.  

The fishmonger picked up the fish and weighed it in his hands. “Ten sous for each cut.”

“So much!”

“Citizenness Enjolras, these fish have come a long way. I didn’t just get them from the Seine!”

Eponine sighed as she peeked into her reticule. ‘ _Just enough for bread and tomatoes perhaps, and the rest for breakfast tomorrow,’_ she decided as she brought out a few coins. She glanced to where Musichetta was haggling with a seller over another batch of shellfish. ‘ _I don’t s’pose I would be trying that sort of thing any day soon,’_ she thought as she waited for the fishmonger to finish cleaning and wrapping the fish.

By the time Eponine arrived home with the fish, a loaf of bread, a couple of tomatoes as well as a handful of herbs from Musichetta’s own collection, her younger brothers were already waiting in the yard. “What a net! You lost the fish’s head!” Gavroche quipped when he saw her.

“I had it cleaned special,” Eponine replied as she dug in her pelisse for the house keys.

On hearing this, Neville hung his head. “I wish I had the scales.”

“Why, what would you want fish scales for?”

“To look at. I heard they have the most interesting colors.”

Jacques wrinkled his nose. “Do we have to eat the fish tonight too?”

“If you want to get full. We have some bread and cheese, but that’s not enough for your supper,” Eponine said as they entered the house. “I should have this done by the time you’re done with your assignments for tomorrow.”

“If we finish faster, can we eat earlier?” Neville asked gleefully.

Gavroche thumped the back of the younger boy’s head. “Not unless you want to use your papers for kindling the fire!”

“Now nothing of that!” Eponine warned, seeing the first signs of a scuffle. As soon as the boys retreated to their respective haunts in the study or the living room, she headed to the larder to get some potatoes, garlic, oil, and a single onion. ‘ _I hope this will be flavorful enough to manage with the fish,’_ she thought as she began chopping the vegetables.

Just as she began slicing the fish, she heard another familiar step in the front hall. ‘ _What will he think of this?’_ Eponine wondered as she plunged her hands in some water and ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to look presentable. “You’re home early Antoine,” she called as she heard the footsteps enter the kitchen.

“One of my meetings got cancelled,” Enjolras replied before dropping a light kiss on Eponine’s head. “What are you cooking?”

The feel of her husband’s body so close to hers was enough to send heat rising to Eponine’s cheeks. “Something your mother called a soupe aigo-saou,” she managed to say, looking back down at her preparations on the kitchen table.

“Ah that.” Enjolras put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I’ll wait with the boys for supper then.”

“Antoine, wait!” Eponine set down her knife and turned quickly to face him. For a moment the sight of his elegant mien stole the words from her lips; how was it that he managed such a feat even at the close of the day? Yet she knew all too well that bemusement and affection that deepened his eyes, and she felt her breath return to her. “You…you didn’t have this often when you were at home in Aix?”

“We had plenty of soups, which I never got the names for,” Enjolras replied.

Eponine nodded and bit her lip, already feeling disappointment sour her gut. ‘ _So much for that then,’_ she thought as she turned back to her cooking. She tossed the fish and the other ingredients into a pot before lighting the stove. As she stepped away from the stove, she heard her husband fetching the dishes from the cupboard. “I do hope you like it,” Eponine said as she went to sit at the table as he put the plates and cutlery in place. “It’s the first time I’m trying it.”

Enjolras looked at her quizzically. “What about it?”

“I just thought you’d like something from….home I s’pose.” She bit her lip as she met his gaze. “I know you want it a little.”

“I remember, but I do not go looking for it,” he pointed out. “Especially with the price of fish being what it is.”

Eponine snorted, remembering what had transpired earlier at the fishmonger’s. She reached over to smooth out her partner’s shirtsleeves. “I s’pose if you had the patience to catch your own fish, you’d have dishes from Aix more often?”

“I’d have to grow my own herbs and vegetables too,” Enjolras said dryly.  He clasped her hand, tracing her knotty fingers with his thumb. “Something which Paris is not entirely suited for.”

‘ _Not just Paris, but both of us,’_ Eponine thought. Though Enjolras had spoken a few times about his family’s home and their extensive gardens, she could not quite picture him there with his knees in the dirt. ‘ _No more than I could imagine myself at the inn, at my age,’_ she realized.

Enjolras squeezed her hand. “Eponine? Is everything well?”

At last Eponine nodded and felt a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. I was only thinking of things.”

“As you always do.”

“Of good things this time,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder as they waited for the pot to begin to boil.


End file.
